


Oxyacetylene

by hellkitty



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/M, Frottage, Skin Hunger
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-30
Updated: 2015-05-30
Packaged: 2018-04-01 23:54:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4039498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rated noncon because a) I'd rather err on the side of warning high and b) though you might argue for consent here, in the Citadel's power structure, I don't think they really have a notion of female sexual consent, which means, yeah, it's all kind of nonconsensual.  One way or the other, she has no real 'choice' in the matter.  And the frot because, shut up it's a kink.    And yes, I giggled like a loon writing this whole thing, because if you know anything about me, it is that I SUUUUUUCK at writing human porn.  </p><p>ON THAT NOTE.....</p><p>EDIT: Title is from the <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0utAzwzXVRU"> Cubanate song</a> which might be a good soundtrack for this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oxyacetylene

**Author's Note:**

> Convo I had last night:  
> Friend: You haven't written porn for this fandom yet, what's wrong with you?  
> Me: Oh yeah, wow, I mean, the Nux/Capable stuff almost writes itself!  
> Friend: No, I mean that, you know, morally fucked up ethically compromised shit you do.  
> Me: ????!?  
> Then I got to thinking. Yup. I've written sexually incapable RoboCop, Javert getting all "Horse Dealer's Daughter" with his housekeeper, Riddick fucking a snake lady, I don't even remember what the fuck all I did to Max from Elysium, Tarn opticsocket fucking one of his own teammates, etc, etc, I have precisely zero high moral ground to stand on. So, there's really only one thing to say: 
> 
> CHALLENGE ACCEPTED. 
> 
> Question: I've somehow got it in my head(canon) that Coma is mute. Blind and mute. And I remember the scene toward the end where he seems to be screaming, but there is no diegetic sound of a scream, which would be a weird choice to blank out...unless the character is mute. Can someone confirm or deny this wacky idea? In the meantime, I find the idea of a mute character way too interesting to not play with so forgive me if it's merely My Wacky Headcanon.

 

He could hear the female's breath catch, in the last echo of the War Boy's laugh who had brought her here, thrust her into his room. He could feel the tension, like a note hanging in the air, the way a pure note will thrum crystal, only it was something under his skin that echoed, responded, as she looked around, muscles tense, taking in the bareness of the place, maybe even tugging down the hem of the shift they'd put her in. It was an agonizing sound, to him, to know want, and need, to be nearly vibrating with desire, and to know the very thing he wanted, feared him, hated him, thought him hideous.

He knew the moment she spotted him, from the sound strangling her throat, the weight shift back against the stone of the wall. He didn't know what he looked like, didn't know how far from the scale of attractive he fell, but he'd tried to find out, fingertips probing the faces of the women they brought him.

And that was what had started it all--the butterfly pressure of his fingertips on their faces, curious, fascinated by line and plane and angle, by the velvet smoothness of cheeks, the smoother texture of the lips that trembled under his touch. His own face felt coarse by comparison, everything thicker, bigger, less soft, uneven asymmetry.

His hands almost burned to touch her already, imagining the interplay of shape and texture, like melody and counterpoint, stirring some coiling thing in his belly to life.

He wished he could tell her not to be afraid. That he wouldn't hurt her--or try not to. But he didn't have words, either, the only sounds he could make a sort of wheezing, animal grunt, which was more frightening to them than keeping silent. Instead, he moved forward, closer, confident in his space, and he could feel himself close to her, feel the first waves of heat from her body, and he could smell the water they'd used to scrub her almost clean, and he could feel how much taller he was than her, and her panic because of it, as he loomed over her. He knew she was looking up at him, fear in her face—he could hear it in her breath, and he knew she found him ugly.

It hit him like a blunt blow in that belly center that was just waking. He dropped to one knee, then both, bending closer to rest his forehead against her belly, feeling the fabric against his face, breathing in the scent of her, salt-human and sensuous, and the promise of satin skin beneath the thin shift.

She went rigid, against him, belly tight, hands little bird claws perched on his shoulders trying to push him away. Trying to take him away from this thing he wanted, the only thing he needed, lusted after. A flare of anger, bright and fizzling quickly, like flame in oxygen, hatred, resentment, anger at being denied, at not even being given a chance. He snatched her wrist, exploding to his feet, a coiled wire of kinetic energy, and flung himself, and her, on the low shelf he slept on, stripping off her shift with a tear of fabric from his strong hands, flinging it away with the last tatters of his anger.

He sat, thighs spread, and pulled her between them, framing her hips, pulling her spine against his chest. Her breasts rested across one of his forearms, two half-bowls of soft weight, and he sank into the feeling, concentrating on the shape of her body, sleek lines and curves, and the feathers of hair against his mouth.

Was it so horrible, he thought, to be held like this, just held, body curling around you, longing and protective, wanting nothing more than a taste of skin, the feel of the rise and fall of ribs, the reality, the weight, the presence of another? Was that too much to share, too much to ask?

One of her hands dug into his thigh, the other clamped around one of his wrists, little bars of iron resistance. He didn't move--why would he want to?--just letting himself sink, savor, wallow, in the nearness of her, the bare skin and heat and the bird-fast pulse of her heart.

He gave a sigh, deep, shuddering, moving her hair aside with his cheek to rest a long kiss on the side of her throat, that line where neck and shoulder met, a union of angles and contour. She thrashed against him, for a few seconds, hands slapping at his, before relenting, half giving up, maybe half accepting that...this wasn't entirely awful, this wasn't pain and loathing. In his way, in his own way, he worshipped her, worshipped every woman they brought him, for being strong and soft, beautiful and whole in ways he could never be. Was it evil to want to touch magnificence?

It wasn't enough, not quite yet, too much fabric in the way between them, and he split his arms, shucking it off, baring his own skin, and pulling her back against him, the wings of her shoulderblades against his chest, her heat on his, skin against skin.

Her hand relented against his thigh, and he rocked back, hauling her with him, wanting her weight on his, pressing him into the stone, a real weight and presence against him. She came, unprotesting, her head lolling back against his shoulder, feathers of hair tickling against his face and throat.

He let his hands roam, then, first exploring lazy, drowsy circles on her belly, feeling the bell of the rib cage, the curve of her belly, the swell of the hips and jut of the hip bones. Gentle, feathering touches, nothing more, simply trying to commit to memory the feel of it, line and texture and energy. She gave a muted sigh, half-against her will, her body soothed by the long, gentle strokes on her skin. See? He was no threat. He was no danger.

His hands wandered further, grazing the underside of her breasts, that desperately intimate line where the round weight of the breast met the arch of the ribcage, soft meeting structure, one thumb grazing up the curve, over the nipple. A gasp, from the female, and a taut pull to the belly, but she made no move to stop him, now, only a fluttering release of tension after a moment, that yielding that was giving up and giving in indistinguishably muddled together.

He dragged his other hand, knuckles across skin, down over her belly, exploring the bowl of her hips, the rise of her sex, sweeping up the plush curves of her thighs, so different from his own, wiry muscles, that surged underneath her, grinding against her spine. He was hard, his whole body was aroused, it seemed, and the swell of her ass against his hipbones seemed to enflame him, pushing himself harder against her, in long, slow rocking pulses, that took the sweat that sheened them both, slicking where their bodies met.

He risked a nipping little kiss on her throat, feeling her pulse hammering against the vein, just under the skin, as one hand dipped down lower, between her thighs, which parted, limply, against his. His hands dipped into the delta between her thighs, the animal nest of hair, finding the smaller fold of flesh between, pinching it lightly between two calloused fingers, used to a different instrument, and tugging it gently, in a counterpoint rhythm to the rise and fall of his hips, straining under her.

Her ribcage juddered under his arm, her breath coming in pants, sharp and ragged, her hands fluttering around, wanting to touch…something, one of them finally settling on his thigh again, squeezing at the muscle like she was grasping for a handhold.

He wanted to tell her how beautiful she felt right now, the satin columns of muscle up her spine pressing against his cock, the sinuous waves her body made against his fingertips. He wanted her to know it, but the only way he could tell her was like this, skin to skin, body to body, where and how she couldn’t see him.

He felt her thighs tighten, her belly tense, her hips pushing up against his hand, her other hand pushing his fingers harder against her, further down, so that his fingertips found slick wetness, smelling of salt and musk and pure desire. No longer pushing him away, no longer rejecting him, but guiding him, bringing her closer.

His own lungs felt like a bellows, fanning flames, lifting her weight unevenly, compared to the steady tempo of his hips driving his hardness against her back. And she gave a cry that was pure music, a long, high note torn from her throat, her hips bucking up, almost bucking his hand off, keening in release, and he felt his own crest over him, in hot, almost lazy spurts of fluid against his belly, driven over the edge by the sound of her voice.

She collapsed down onto him, almost hard enough to hurt his still throbbing cock, aftershocks of it trembling through her belly and thighs, melting against him in a kind of dizzying, heady surrender.

And this time, when he turned to graze her ear with a kiss, she didn’t turn away.


End file.
